Tears streaked down Kayce's cheeks as he muttered, his voice trembling, "He drove you to jump, so I tied him up at the highest place. It won't be long now, Mia... Just wait for me to kill him."

All fight had drained from him. His voice, trembling with raw desperation, stripped away any trace of menace. His tears fell, and he looked pitiful.

With her voice gentling, Scarlett leaned in a little closer. "Tell me, what could Bruce have done to make you resent him so much?"

The question shattered Kayce's calm. He raked his hands through his hair and rocked in his chair, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.

Seeing him unravel, Scarlett stopped pressing. She pinched out the flickering candle, then seized a bottle of water and splashed it over his face.

Kayce flinched, blinking hard as confusion clouded his eyes.

When the weight of his confession came crashing back, color drained from his face until he sat frozen.

"Kayce," Scarlett said, her voice calm but firm. "If Bruce really did something wrong, there are proper, lawful ways to make him pay. Even for Mia's sake, throwing away your own life is still the worst decision you could make."

She could already guess what had happened.

Whatever Bruce had done to Kayce's daughter had shattered Kayce's soul—driven him past grief, straight into madness and crime.

From the other side of the one-way window, Asher stood, absorbing every detail of what had unfolded.

Surprise ran down his spine. The woman in that room was nothing like the obedient, soft-spoken wife he'd known for three years.

This Scarlett was sharp, commanding, and dangerous in a way that both unsettled and fascinated him.

How did she know how to do something like this, hypnotizing a man and getting his confession?

Confusion clouded his thoughts, but unfinished business tugged him back to reality. He turned silently and walked away with the police chief.

By the time Asher stepped into the hallway again, Scarlett had already left the interrogation room.

"Ms. Riley, thank you—truly," the officer in the room earlier said with heartfelt sincerity.

With a faint dip of her head, Scarlett responded, "You're welcome."

She turned and strode out of the precinct, her pace steady and deliberate—until a figure stepped into her path.

It was none other than Asher.

A month had passed since their last encounter—long enough for Scarlett to forge armor around her heart.

Now, when she looked at Asher, not a flicker of emotion stirred behind her composed gaze.

"Mr. Sullivan," she said coolly, her voice even. "Is there something you need?"

If not for the familiar contours of her face, he might have mistaken her for someone else entirely.

"Come with me." Asher's eyes swept over her cropped hair, a frown cutting across his features. The words left his mouth more like an order than a request.

He took a few steps forward before pausing, realizing she hadn't moved to follow.

"Mr. Sullivan." Scarlett's voice sliced through the air, sharper than before. "Do I really need to spell it out? Whatever we were in the past—it's over. We have nothing to do with each other now."

Her refusal landed like a slap.

Asher's eyes darkened, a storm gathering behind them. Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward his car.

Scarlett didn't fight back. The last thing she wanted was a scene on the police station steps, so she let him pull her inside.

The door slammed shut. "Where have you been?" Asher asked. "And your hair—"

"Asher." Scarlett's tone was cold enough to freeze the air between them, cutting his words clean off.

A month away from him had stripped her of every trace of meekness. She was no longer the gentle wife who used to bend to his will.

"These are my private affairs," she said calmly, eyes steady. "I don't owe you an explanation."

Asher's gaze swept over her, hard and assessing.

Gone was the soft, compliant woman he'd known—this Scarlett radiated defiance.

"So that's it," Asher murmured, voice low and edged with disbelief. "You've been putting on an act this whole time. This side of you... it's who you truly are, isn't it?"

Scarlett's brow tightened. "That is none of your business," she stated. Her tone carried no warmth, only finality. "From this moment on, whatever path I take, whoever I become—it's none of your concern. Did I make myself clear?"

Asher's gaze locked with hers, and something in him faltered.

The eyes that once looked at him with quiet obedience now burned with fierce defiance.

Against his will, that fire in her gaze drew him in, captivating.

Three years of shared nights had etched her into his bones—every breath, every shiver, instinctively familiar. And he had never been the kind of man to deny himself something he desired.

His eyes lingered on her parted lips, desire tightening his jaw. Before restraint could intervene, he closed the distance and kissed her.

Scarlett's body betrayed her resolve; muscle and memory still recognized the heat of his touch.

No matter how she twisted or pushed away, he overpowered her easily, the same strength that had once made her feel protected now trapping her.

The familiar scent of him flooded her senses, the warmth of his chest pressing against hers like a memory she wished she could burn away.

What had once brought her joy now hollowed her chest with cold despair. She felt as if something fragile within her had been violently torn.

Tears slipped past her closed lashes, silent and burning. Yet beneath her sorrow, a blade of resolve gleamed sharp and steady.

Her hand slid into her bag, fingers curling around the hidden box cutter. In a single, decisive motion, she drove the blade toward Asher without pause.

A flash of metal caught Asher's peripheral vision, instinct forcing him to jerk back before his brain even caught up.

The box cutter Scarlett was holding sliced harmlessly through the air.

A shadow crossed Asher's gaze as his voice turned harsh.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Scarlett?"

Scarlett's lips were swollen from his kiss, her breath uneven, yet her reply came cool and sharp.

"No. If anyone's lost it, it's sure as hell you. We're divorced. This—whatever this is—shouldn't be happening anymore. I only wanted to knock some sense into you."

Tangled strands framed her flushed face, the disarray lending her a fierce, unguarded beauty.

Asher looked at her. She gripped the box cutter to her chest, eyes steady, stance defensive. A dangerous smile ghosted across his lips as he leaned closer.

Before she could react, his hand shot out, snatching the blade from her grasp.

"You really thought this could stop me? You're far too naive, Scarlett," he said.

Though her weapon was gone, Scarlett's poise never wavered.

Her gaze flicked toward the police station looming just outside the car window, and her voice came low and steady. "We're right outside the police station. Try anything again, and I'll go to the police."

Something in her calm defiance made Asher pause.

Now, he realized she meant every word—she truly wanted nothing to do with him now.

This fire burning in her eyes, so unlike the gentle woman he had once known, was impossible to ignore.

"You've changed a lot," he muttered after a long, heavy pause. "Tell me—what compensation do you want for our divorce?"

The abrupt shift of topic caught Scarlett off guard, but at least he stopped kissing her. She didn't care to question why he was bringing that up. With a faint shake of her head, she replied, "Nothing. I don't need a single thing from you."

Her tone carried a quiet finality as she declared, "The one-month period's over. Since fate threw us together today, let's stop dragging this out. Let's end our marriage properly—sign the papers."

Heat surged through Asher's chest at her calm demeanor.

Did she really want to be rid of him this badly?

"What on earth are you waiting for?" Scarlett urged, her voice sharp. "Drive."

Maybe once those stamped papers were in her hands, she'd finally bury her last trace of hope.

Asher's jaw tightened, muscles tightening beneath the strain. Without a word, he leaned over, swung open her side of the car door, and gave a curt nod toward the pavement.

"Get out."

Scarlett's eyes widened at the command, shock flickering across her face. "We're not heading to the courthouse?"

"I've got things to handle." His voice had gone cold, clipped—sharp enough to sting. "I don't have time for that."

The sudden chill in his tone left her surprised, yet she didn't argue.

She believed Asher should be the one more eager to get the divorce finalized.

So, maybe he was really busy with something else today.

She stepped out slowly, confusion knitting her brow. Before she could even shut the door properly, the engine roared to life, tires shrieking as the car tore away in a spray of gravel.

Asher looked to be in a hurry, probably hurrying back to Nora.

A flicker of wistfulness crossed her eyes, but no sorrow. Not anymore.

"Miss, you should've told us you were done."

A familiar voice snapped Scarlett out of thought.

As she turned, the tenderness in Alfred's steady smile melted the tension from her face.

"Sorry," she said gently, a faint apology in her tone. "I just stepped out."

Her lips curved as she added, "I told Dad a driver would've been enough. You didn't have to come yourself."

"Your father wanted me to come personally to pick you up," Alfred said with an easy laugh. He opened the car door with his usual care and pressed a small pastry box into her hands—the pastry used to be her favorite.

The thoughtful gesture warmed Scarlett's chest, easing the chill Asher had left behind.

The corners of her mouth lifted as she settled into the seat, the car rolling her to the Riley family's residence.

As soon as Scarlett entered the living room, a familiar figure moved swiftly toward her, his face alight with genuine joy.

"Scarlett, you're back? How did it go? Everything at the police station is taken care of?"

In the eyes of the public, Walter Riley—the head of the powerful Riley family—was a man of composure and authority. Yet here, facing Scarlett, he seemed more like an aging father who had waited far too long for his daughter to come home.

"It's all settled, Dad," Scarlett replied with a gentle smile. "Just a minor case, nothing complicated."

"That's good." His tone warmed as he reached for a sheet of paper and pressed it into her hands. "Now, take a look at this list of guests. Your return deserves the grandest celebration Aneville has ever seen. I will hold a banquet to welcome you back. I want every person in this city to know that my daughter is home."

That sort of overflowing enthusiasm from her father was something Scarlett knew all too well.

Skimming the list without much thought, she quickly passed it back.

"Dad, you handle these things the best. I'll be happy with whoever you choose."

Walter's gaze softened, a quiet tenderness flickering in his eyes. "That's very thoughtful of you, Scarlett."

He then led her in the direction of the stairs. "Go on upstairs. You look exhausted—get some rest."

Scarlett gave a small nod and climbed the steps, her footsteps fading into the hush of the house.

The paper lay forgotten on the table.

Because Scarlett hadn't read the list carefully, she didn't know that among the names was one she knew well—Asher.

As night descended over Aneville, city lights glittered like spilled jewels across the streets.

Behind the wheel of his sleek car, Asher cut through the traffic and headed straight for Nocturne—the city's most exclusive club.

It was a familiar haunt, one he shared with a handful of old friends.

The moment he stepped inside, he bypassed the main floor and strode into their usual private room.

"Asher, what brings you here tonight?" A friend lounged on the sofa, eyes narrowing with curiosity as he observed Asher's face. "Judging by that expression, you're not exactly in a good mood."

Asher kept his silence. He sank onto the sofa and tossed back a full glass, the liquor scorching down his throat and dimming the blaze in his chest.

"Asher?" James Fletcher leaned forward, studying him. "What's wrong? Did something happen with Miss Dixon?"

Only a handful of people could claim to be Asher's friends, and James was one of them.

He knew that if anyone could shake the man's composure, it had to be that fragile woman tucked away in the sanatorium.

Yet to his surprise, Asher shook his head.

"It's not about her."

Scarlett's name hovered on the tip of Asher's tongue, burning like the alcohol he'd just swallowed—but he bit it back before it could escape.

James noticed the flicker of hesitation and shifted the topic with a knowing ease. "By the way, Asher—heard the news? The Riley heiress just came back from overseas. The Riley family is throwing a massive banquet for her soon."

The mention snagged Asher's attention.

His brows lifted slightly, curiosity breaking through his earlier silence. "The Riley heiress?" he echoed, the words slow. "What's her name?"

James swirled the amber liquor in his glass before answering, as if savoring the suspense.

"Scarlett Riley."

The name hit like a jolt. Asher's fingers tightened around the glass, eyes widening before he could mask the reaction.

"What did you just say?" His voice came out sharper than intended. "The Riley heiress—what's her name?"

Startled by Asher's reaction, James blinked and said, "Scarlett Riley. Why? Do you know her?"